


Horatio, In Finem

by freedomworm



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 09:12:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3351212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freedomworm/pseuds/freedomworm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horatio contemplates life, and Hamlet is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Horatio, In Finem

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this for my AP Lit midterm and presented it in a video recording along with a power point on queer theory in Hamlet. I got a 100, but it was probably more due to the power point than the story...  
> Anyway, I figured I'd post this now because I just posted a Rosencrantz& Guildenstern Are Dead fic and this DOES count as fanfiction ,I suppose.

The story was told, the bodies dragged away and buried, and a new king was crowned. The following celebration stood in contrast to the great festivities often held by Claudius and Gertrude; there had been a short feast and then the court had been turned away for the evening.

Horatio stood on the stairs of the eastern tower, gazing out the window and into the dark night.  He had completed his last favor to Prince Hamlet and felt quite empty for it. His limbs felt heavy and his thoughts were disconnected. Despite this, his mind often turned to one subject: the pearl.

It had been burning a hole in his pocket for days –ever since he’d fished it out of the poisoned wine and stowed it away in secret. Horatio reached into his pocket and produced the pearl, holding it up to his eyes.

It glowed white by the moonlight.

Hamlet would have commented on the poetry of such a celestial-looking thing being a weapon for murder, but to Horatio, who did not possess such a romantic soul, it looked like a pearl and he could just as easily cast it from the tower as he could… swallow it.

“I will not,” Horatio whispered. He had thought that perhaps uttering these words aloud would give them greater weight. It only made him feel foolish. He was not Hamlet and he could not wander the empty halls of Elsinore musing to no one in particular. In Wittenberg, Hamlet had oft been seen pacing about, reflecting aloud to anything within sight, whether it be person, plant, or wall.

Horatio rolled the pearl between his thumb and forefinger and tried to assess his options. He should drop the pearl. That was the right thing to do, to drop it and look away so he didn’t see where it fell.

Horatio sighed and put the pearl back in his pocket and turned, preparing to return to his rooms. In his peripheral, something moved –something horrifyingly familiar. Horatio’s head snapped sideways and a deep dread set over him, chilling him to the core.

The stairwell was empty when he looked, but Horatio hurried forward anyway, ascending with one hand on the stone wall to guide him up the dark tower.

The top of the stairs opened into a small room, and Horatio stepped inside just as the midnight bell stopped ringing. He whirled around, frantically searching the shadows for the figure he had seen. “Show yourself!” he cried.

All around him, the room stood frozen.

“Ghost,” Horatio called, “Demon or heavenly spirit: I charge thee, _speak_.” His memories stirred, reminding him of the last instance he had uttered these words, and he shuddered. “There is no one else,” he warned, “I alone possess a mind ope to your words. Your son –Hamlet –he is dead.” He waited expectantly, but the ghost of King Hamlet did not present itself. Horatio’s apprehension turned to anger; “The prince’s blood is on your hands,” he found himself saying. “Your treacherous word, meant to inspire justice for wrongful death, hath brought ruin to the royal line of Denmark. Fortinbras, son of your enemy, now sits on the Danish throne. _Speak_!” Fists clenched tightly at his sides, Horatio glowered around the room, but there was still no response.

He remained there, waiting for a ghostly figure to appear, but when the rising sun cast its first beam of orange light into the sky, he resigned himself to the idea that it must have been a trick –wishful thinking of a grieving mind.

Horatio considered the thought bitterly, but he was a rational man and always had been, and he was useless if he held onto the past. 

Useless to who, though? Fortinbras?

No, Fortinbras had his own confidants, his own advisors, his own…friends.

Horatio pursed his lips and turned swiftly on his heel to descend the tower.

The halls were crowded with a number of servants removing furniture from the old apartments of Laertes and the royal family.

Six days there had been –not even a fortnight. It was almost as if there were no mourning period whatsoever, and _had_ there been? The crowning ceremony had been mere hours after the burials. Who had had time to _grieve_? The servants? The guards? No. Horatio fancied himself alone in carrying the crushing weight of sorrow in his heart.

He snorted at such a melodramatic thought just as he arrived to his rooms. Horatio opened the door and stood there, surveying his tidy living space with regret. He would need to return to Wittenberg eventually, but perhaps he could stall for time by writing ahead to secure his old apartments there.

Collapsing onto his bed, Horatio’s last thought before sleep overcame him was the bitter recollection that he had not gone back earlier because he had been planning on returning when Hamlet could go, too.

Sleep washed over him like a warm wave of darkness.

 

 

He woke up shivering in the dark, but it did not take long for his eyes to focus on the pale figure that sat at the foot of his bed.

“Gentle Horatio,” murmured Queen Gertrude, “How heavy thy steps have become, how tense thou holdest thyself. Dost thou mourn, Horatio?”

He blinked away the last of the sleep from his eyes and half sat up, drawing his legs up away from the ghostly queen. She did not look like the ghost of King Hamlet. She was… lighter, somehow, and though she came to him the image of a dead woman, she did not cause him fear.

Gertrude looked at him with some concern appearing in her eyes. “Horatio?”

“Every moment,” he blurted, voice raspy from sleep. “My heart seems to clench when I give too much thought to it…” he trailed off, unsure of what to say.

“Thou mourn for one above all others,” It wasn’t a question, just a calm statement. “Do not furrow thy brow in such expression of surprise. Thou art Hamlet’s dearest companion. I admit we are not familiar, but Hamlet hath writ me many a letter praising the scholar Horatio. In short, I say, thy polite pretense is appreciated, but false drops of sorrow needn’t wet thy cheek.” Gertrude paused and tilted her head to the side, peering at Horatio contemplatively. “Thou have defended mine honor –and that of Hamlet.”

“And Claudius?”

She waved her hand. “No matter. We do not see him.”

“We?”

“Hamlet cannot come here,” Gertrude said sharply.

Horatio felt disappointment form a lump in his throat. “But what business have _you_ in the land of the living? You are not missed.”

“Oh these words like daggers…” Queen Gertrude murmured, sounding more amused than anything else. She stood, tugging the train of her dress around in a flourish. “’Tisn’t some flight of fancy that returns me to Elsinore.” She said, holding up one hand. Between her thumb and forefinger she held a single pearl. “Hath thou anything to _say_ for thyself?”

Horatio blanched, one hand reaching for his pocket. His fingers curled around empty space.

“Hamlet did initially impress upon me a great desire to know his peer, Horatio, supposed possessor of a sound mind and wise words,” said Gertrude, “If he sawest thou now…how far thou have fallen. Thou art the image of Atlas. Heavy does thy sorrow weigh upon thy shoulders…” she considered the pearl in her hand and then flicked it away without ceremony.

Horatio’s eyes trailed after the pearl as it scattered across the floor. It rolled under the wardrobe and was lost from sight. He continued to stare at the spot where it had disappeared.

 

“Horatio.”

 

Horatio blinked, looked over, and found the room empty. He slid off the bed. “ _Hamlet_?” Horatio whispered, uncertain.

 Silence.

Then: “How farest thou, dear friend?”

Horatio felt the blood drain from his face. “Hamlet,” he said weakly, turning his head to the side.

Hamlet made a face and stepped away from the wall he’d been leaning against. He drifted closer to the other side of the bed and finally came to a stop near the end post.

“Thou lookest to have seen a ghost, Horatio.” Hamlet said, amused.

 “Thy mother—”

“As dead as I,” Hamlet said. He cocked his head to the side, “When shall thou part for Wittenberg?”

“In due time,” Horatio said tersely.

“Why stay?”

Horatio had no answer and Hamlet laughed, “No more, then, Horatio. This discourse merely fills silence, my true concern centers around the venomous pearl within your pocket.”

Horatio tensed. “’Tis not—”

“Reconsider that,” said Hamlet, moving around the bed until he and Horatio stood face to face. Hamlet frowned and then extended his hand, quickly reaching into Horatio’s left pocket.

He held his hand up and Horatio glanced down to see the pearl sitting in Hamlet’s palm.

“Art thou a fantasy?” said Horatio, looking from the pearl to the wardrobe across the room and then back again.

“Thou needn’t speak with such horror,” said Hamlet with a frown. “Do not distract from the matter at hand. What purpose doth this poison serve, kept so close to thine heart?” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing in a scrutinizing stare.

“No purpose,” Horatio insisted, “It isn’t –wasn’t _kept—_ ”

Hamlet rushed forward, embracing Horatio. His arms were frigid, and Horatio resisted a shudder, and closed his eyes. He felt Hamlet move away and only then did he dare open his eyes.

Hamlet had retreated to a distance of just two feet and he gazed at Horatio with an unreadable expression. “Swallow it,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“The thought plagues thy mind, doth it not? To be or not to be” –Hamlet cut himself off, a look of confusion flickering across his face. “Well?”

Horatio felt his eyes widen. “I –I vowed…”

“I never asked for a vow,” Hamlet said. He paused a moment and then sighed. “I would thou stay in Elsinore, Horatio. Return not to Wittenberg. Remain –with me.”  He took Horatio’s hand and placed the pearl in his palm.

 Horatio gazed down at the pearl and then looked back up to Hamlet, who had begun to… smile.

Swallow the pearl? It was not such a terrible concept, and certainly not previously unconsidered. But…

“No,” Horatio said. He cleared his throat and continued with more strength: “Thou truly art a creature of fancy,”

Hamlet’s expression turned stormy. “Swallow it, Horatio,” he said.

“I’d rather not, dear prince,” Horatio said steadily, stepping back.

“Horatio!” Hamlet said warningly. His pallid skin had taken on an ashy gray color. “I prithee stay with me, Horatio, my most loyal— Horatio— I say, remember our –our friendship –recall fond memory of time spent together. _Horatio, do not leave me here—_ ”

Horatio stammered an apology, stepping out of reach. The next time he stepped back, he felt a sudden rush of blood to the head and the room vanished before his eyes.

 

A bell began to ring, filling the halls of Castle Elsinore with low, steady knells.

Horatio found himself sprawled across his bed and he rolled over in confusion and peered around his room. It was still cast in darkness but for a small streak of moonlight that had squeezed in through a gap in the drapes. He blurted out the first thought that entered his mind: “Let there be no more ghosts,”

“In due time, Horatio,” came the soft reply of Queen Gertrude. An added weight appeared near the end of the bed. “I can see something troubles you, Horatio.”

“I fancy I saw Hamlet,” Horatio admitted quietly, “Or a man very much like him,”

“Saw Hamlet?” Gertrude repeated, puzzled.

“Or a man very much like him.” Horatio stared up at the canopy that hung above him and reached into his pocket, unsure of what he would find. There was nothing, and unexpected relief flooded over Horatio. “I part for Wittenberg on the morrow,” he decided.

“Tomorrow?” Gertrude sounded surprised.

Horatio nodded. “I have let myself mope, garbed in this inky cloth, in a manner counter to my true nature. I live to move forward, unattached,” he mused. “Denmark lacks further reason to bind me here; to Wittenberg it must be.”

There was a beat and a low chuckle. “I fare thee well, then, sweet Horatio.”

Horatio scrambled to sit upright and found himself eye to eye with Hamlet. “I don’t understand,” he said after a moment.

“Tis maddening to try,” Hamlet said. He took Horatio’s hands in his. “Go to Wittenberg.”

 “I must,” Horatio agreed after a reluctant pause.

Hamlet grinned. “Do not look so unhappy, Horatio. Thy countenance shall only improve…in Wittenberg—”

“This was thy scheme!”

“And forty-thousand times I would repeat it should the result remain the same,” Hamlet said sternly. His expression softened, “Horatio, I would see thou live on – _move_ on.”

“But I…” Horatio clutched Hamlet’s hands tightly. It felt so _real_. And then Hamlet’s hands fell right through his.

“I’m dead, Horatio,” Hamlet said.

Horatio stared at him for a long time, torn between a long sigh and bursting out in shouts of denial. “I see that,” he said finally. He smiled a little and the expression seemed foreign after weeks of grimness. “’To be or not to be’; if that is the question, I answer the former.”  
 “We shall meet again,” Hamlet vowed.

“In due time, I suppose,” Horatio said dryly.

Hamlet clasped his hand once more. “Remember me fondly, Horatio.”

“How could I not, sweet Prince?” Horatio replied, and the bitter edge to his words was blatant but, he decided, warranted –deserved, even.

Horatio closed his eyes before he could decide against it and when he opened them again, it was early morning. In his palm was the poisonous pearl, crushed to pieces.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts?


End file.
